


Love After You

by notimetoblog



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, historical!AU, steve rogers fluff, story takes place in a made up place, think 19th century
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-04-07 09:09:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19081939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notimetoblog/pseuds/notimetoblog
Summary: In a time of ballrooms and ballgowns, a looming war threatens to bring darkness. Still, love finds a way to cut through. Some loves, you find, come slowly. Others, come unexpectedly. Could either one survive the war that is to come?





	1. Let Me Call You Sweetheart

**Author's Note:**

> This series will be tagged as Bucky x reader despite its beginning… I guess that’s all I can say for now but don’t kill me!! I promise Bucky will show up. I am so nervous and excited to share this story with you guys! Its been a long time coming lol. Quick note: this story takes place in a made up town :D I really hope you all enjoy this story! Thank you so much for reading!! 
> 
> Xtra Note: Give a listen to the song mentioned in the chapter [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FM4lDtsV-9Q&feature=youtu.be)

You’d waited too long for this, but he’s here now. 

His strong arms encircle your waist, bringing you close as if determined not to let even the tiniest of distances exist between your bodies. His fingers play with the silk bow that rests on the back of your dress, delicately gliding the fabric between his fingers, silently reveling in the softness of the material. He didn’t get to enjoy much softness as of late. 

And as if this tender gesture isn’t enough to have you melting in his arms, his lips find yours, driving your already fast heartbeat even higher. 

Everything about him is so present, so real. He’s not just in a dream or in a distant memory. He’s here, and you can’t help but let your fingers trail up to get lost in his neatly combed blonde hair as he slowly walks you both backward until you’re pressed against a pillar of the gazebo. 

“God, I missed you,” he whispers, voice breathless, blue eyes looking back at you with nothing but adoration. “Every day, every minute, every second.” 

Your response is cut short as he captures your lips again, this time using the pillar you’re pressed up again to somehow manage to bring you even closer. 

It isn’t proper. It isn’t allowed, and yet none of that matters, not now. 

Your soldier is home, and everything else can wait. 

With a sigh he parts from the kiss, lips immediately turning up into a dopey smile. 

“What is it, Rogers?” you ask with a giggle, fingers gently gliding along his jaw, then sliding down to play with the buttons of his military jacket. 

You always did love the way the navy of his uniform only made his steel blue eyes that much more breathtaking. 

“Just missed you, sweetheart,” he replies with a whisper still very much enjoying the way your fingers just couldn’t seem to stop caressing him. 

“Would you believe me if I said I missed you more?” 

“I don’t think that’s possible,” he chuckles, wrapping his arms around you once more. “Ever lived with more than 20 men? All of them in desperate need of freshening up but too tired to even try. After a day, I was missing the way you always smell so nice.” 

To make his point, he lowers his head to the crook of your neck, leaving small kisses as he takes in your fresh scent. 

“Is that all you missed?” you ask in mock hurt, giggling as his hot breath dances along your neck. “And only because you were surrounded by men?” 

“That was just the first day,” he laughs, bringing his head back up. “By the first night, I was missing how you look like an absolute angel in that blue dress of yours. The one with the flowers. Trust me, sweetheart, there are no angels in the barracks. Second day had me missing your voice. That lovely way you say my name. By the end of the week, I considered deserting just to be with you again.”  
“You did not,” you laugh with a joy only he can bring out. “Corporal Rogers, you are too good of a man and soldier to ever desert. Not even for me.” 

“Well, I came close,” he says with a tender voice before pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “Love makes you think crazy thoughts, sweetheart. What’s military prison if I can have my love in my arms sooner?” 

Those eyes of his were your weakness. It had all started with his tender gaze- that soft expression you grew desperately fond of. It had invited you to get to know that handsome young man across the way only to fill your heart with love for him the more you got to know him. 

“I love you,” you confess as if for the first time. Your heart always managing to race whenever you spoke those words. 

In a soft gesture, he presses his lips to yours once more. This time taking his time, gently parting your lips, drinking in your soft hums of content. 

“Miss! Miss!” an intruding voice comes from behind. Reality suddenly catching up to you both. 

A gazebo wasn’t the best place to hide, but all you had worried about was getting to Steve as fast as possible and a gazebo tucked behind a church seemed like the perfect place to reunite with your soldier. Yes, that decision was more based on how fast you could there than how adequately it could hide you both and now, seeing Abigail, your lady’s maid, rushing up the steps of the gazebo, you hoped nobody had caught sight of you and Steve. 

Sometimes precautions are thrown to the wind when it comes to love. Or as Steve had put it- Love makes you think crazy thoughts, sweetheart. 

“Miss,” Abigail says once more through labored breaths. “The service is over.” 

“That must have been the fastest service in the history of the town,” Steve pouts, an unmissable hint of disappointment in his voice. 

“Must have been,” you agree. 

You had just gotten there, and now you had to leave. 

“I’ll send you a message with Abigail as soon as I can,” he says, reaching out, gently turning you to face him. “I’ll see you soon, I promise,” his eyes bright with hope. 

Your voice would surely break, so instead, you respond with a nod already hating the distance once again growing between you both. 

“Before you go, sweetheart,” you hear him whisper, reaching into one of the pockets of his jacket. “I brought you back this little present. Thought only someone as pretty as you should have something as pretty as this.” 

In his hands is a small, silver, heart-shaped box. The rays of sunlight that make their way across the gazebo hit the silver box, creating little flares that somehow manage to add more beauty to the already gorgeous gift. 

“Steve,” you say in a hushed voice. Your voice breaking, this time from happiness. 

Sensing the need for privacy, you hear Abigail descend the steps of the gazebo, giving you both some space. 

“Open it,” he smiles, moving the box closer to you. 

With gentle fingers, you open the top, instantly tearing up as you hear a soft tune begin to play. 

In a shy quiet voice meant just for you, Steve begins to sing along with the melody. 

“Let me call you Sweetheart, I’m in love with you. Let me hear you whisper that you love me too. Keep the love-light glowing in your eyes so true. Let me call you Sweetheart, I’m in love with you.” 

A tint of pink dusts his cheeks as he sings the last words, leaving you utterly speechless. 

You weren’t sure what you had done right or how you had been lucky enough to get to love the man that stood before you. The man that took your breath away with his kisses. The man that stole your words with his romantic gestures. The man that made you happier than you had ever thought. 

Yet somehow, the stars had aligned, and you had met the love of your life. 

“I love you,” you say through tears after a few beats of silence hoping he understood just how much you meant it. Hoping you were capable of putting all your heart into those three words that somehow didn’t seem adequate enough to express your feelings for him. 

“And I love you,” he says, placing a soft kiss on your forehead before putting the box in your hands, “I’ll see you soon, sweetheart,” he promises. 

A promise you’d heard before. A set of words that both elevated and crushed your heart. 

“I’ll see you soon,” you repeat, already missing him. 

With a heavy heart, you make your way down the steps feeling Steve’s gaze on you. 

The day would come, you knew, when you would no longer need to hide, but for now, any moment with Steve, veiled or not, meant everything to you. The rest of the world could wait, the man who calls you sweetheart is home, and that is everything you need.


	2. To the Beat of Their Hearts

“A party?” you try to keep your voice from raising. If you had learned one thing about your mother is that she did not appreciate anyone raising their voice, especially about parties.

“Yes,” she says sternly, more than ready to fight any remark you might throw her way.

She sits across from you, fingers moving expertly as she fills in a rose petal on her embroidery hoop.

At least her eyes are down, you think. Her gaze was cold enough to freeze a spring day.

“I don’t want to hear any of your complaints,” she barks, reading your mind. “Your father said yes, and frankly this town could use a party.”

“Yes mother, but,” you venture, wondering just how many words she’s going to allow you.

“But nothing,” she cuts you off as she heaves a sigh.

Apparently just three.

Would it kill you to try sneaking in a few more? Perhaps, but the options for entertainment were limited, and that message from Steve hadn’t arrived, so you took a chance. She did have a needle in hand, though. But what a way to go — pierced by embroidery needle.

“But there’s nothing to celebrate,” you finish your sentence, eyes darting looking for any place to hide — preferably one that could stop a flying needle.

“What did I just say?” she doesn’t speak her words; she spits them out. No piece of furniture could halt those weapons.

“But nothing,” you repeat her words, toning down the sass you so badly wish you could express freely.

“You get that attitude from your father,” she continues her rant, fingers picking up where she had left on the rose petal. “How unfortunate. But in any case, I am planning the party, and you are too. No complaining or I will be sure you plan the entire party on your own, do you hear me?”

You know you should respond with a _Yes, mother_ but you’d be lying if you said the thought of responding with a _Maybe I **will** plan the party on my own_ didn’t cross your mind. But she had already reprimanded you once, though, and you were hoping to live and see Steve again, so you decide to bite your tongue.

“Yes, mother.”

“Good,” she says in relief, clearly not in the mood to continue arguing. “This party has to be the talk of the town for the next year. I’m even planning on sending a letter to Patrick, just to ask when he’d be available to play.”

She was inviting the most celebrated pianist in the region with no particular reason for a party except to cure the apparent boredom your mother was suffering.

“And base the date of the party around his schedule?” you ask, measuring your mother’s distaste of the question by how quickly her fingers move as she continues embroidering.

“Yes,” she responds, fingers almost a blur, leaving you to wonder how she managed to embroider such delicate petals. “If I have to wait a decade for him to play at my party, then so be it. But he has to be here, that’s final.”

“Yes, mother,” you say in a monotone voice.

“But until I get his response, we need to think of people to invite. The mayor is back in town; we should invite him.”

“Yes,” you mumble.

“You can invite Wanda if you’d like. She’s a nice girl from a nice family. She’d be a fine party guest.”

This is what you’d come to learn was your mother’s form of a peace offering. She’d offer you something, that had already been decided by her, and disguised it as something you had decided on your own.

You had not, in fact invited Wanda, your mother had. And she most likely already had a guest list in mind so all she expects you to do, really, is say yes.

“The Starks, of course,” she says, voice trailing as she moves on to a more detailed section on her pattern.

“Of course,” you repeat.

“And the Banners?”

“Would not be a party without them, mother,” you say very much enjoying her distraction.

“The Hills. You like Maria, right?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And you know who else is in town?”

Your mother sends you a glare when you don’t respond.

“Mr. Barnes,” she answers her own question and your entire body tenses.

That man, you were sure, had passed. The word of his death had arrived in town a few weeks ago. Most people saying it was of old age, others more sinister, however, murmured that a secret life had caught up with him.  Those rumors painted a more gruesome death colored with illegitimate children and mistresses.

“That man passed,” you heard your voice shake. He couldn’t be back. And if he was, your mother couldn’t be inviting a dead man to her party. What would Patrick say?

“Not _that_ Mr. Barnes,” her laugh fills the room. “His son.”

Now, Mr. Barnes had not been the most open of books. Most of his time spent in a large plot of land he owned hours from the town, only returning to his home in town for a few months. Still, when the cholera outbreak hit years ago, the word in town said his wife and children had fallen ill and passed. Not all his children, apparently.

“His son just moved into the house on Regina Street. What kind of neighbors would we be if we didn’t welcome him with an invitation to our party?”

“His father died just weeks ago, mother. Is he even ready to attend a party?”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” she said, an eyebrow raised.

\---

The letter to Patrick had been sent that same day, your mother unable to contain herself, a date had been set, guests delivered of their invitations, and now the night had arrived.

You had chosen a midnight blue off-the-shoulder dress for the occasion: the color, a secret nod to Steve’s uniform. His eyes had lit up, a bright smile on his lips when you had told him. Even though he wouldn’t be with you tonight, a piece of him would.

Your mother had added her own touch to the dress, giving you a white lace shawl that beautifully contrasted with the richness of the blue.

Descending the stairs, Patrick’s lively melodies had already begun to fill to the foyer. You find couples swaying to and fro making it almost impossible to make your way through into the front parlor, where the majority of the guests lounged around chatting.

Carefully you squeezed past the full skirt ballgowns, hearing a few groans from the couples whose dance you were interrupting.

Still, you continued moving, your eyes catching your mother’s as she spoke to the mayor and his wife. A tiny nod of approval as she took in the way the shawl she had given you draped across your shoulders.

She was in her element. Social gatherings were her time to shine, and by the looks of it, most everybody was hoping to get in a few words with the hostess of tonight’s party, making your mother stand tall, a brilliant smile on her face.

The soft glow from the candles that surrounded the room drew your eyes to the tall windows that looked out to the garden of the home. In the nighttime, only shadows were visible, creating a black backdrop to the merry atmosphere in the room.

Distracted, you jump when an unfamiliar voice suddenly speaks from your right.

“If you stare long enough, your eyes play tricks on you and shapes appear in the shadows,” a young man you’d never met before says, gaze fixed out onto the garden.

Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, a crisp white shirt, and silky white bowtie, the man squints his eyes, still focused on the garden.

“There,” he says, raising his drink and gently tipping it toward the windows. “That almost looks like a dog,” he chuckles.

Confused by his words, you look in the direction he had pointed towards, eyes finding what you knew was a rose bush. Still, you find yourself smiling as you can just make out the sloppy outline of a dog.

“We don’t have a dog,” you say, smile still in place as the longer you stare, the more distinct the shape becomes.

“Are you sure?” he replies, gaze fixed on you now. “Because, miss, I swear there’s a dog in your garden.”

“I’m sure,” you can’t help but laugh at the seriousness in his voice. Anybody else would be convinced he’s actually concerned.

“Where are my manners,” he speaks up, straightening his back and setting down his drink on a small table to his left. He seems confused for a second before he reaches out and takes your hand in his, slowly bringing it up to press a formal kiss along your knuckles. “My name is James Buchanan Barnes, and it’s been an honor getting to attend this lovely party of yours.”

With a timid look, he lets go of your hand, eyes hesitant. The confidence and ease present in his voice just minutes ago seemingly wavering.

Barnes.

Your mind starts connecting the dots, realizing this is most definitely not the older man you had originally pictured when your mother had mentioned the Barnes last name.

“Mr. Barnes,” you voice your thoughts aloud.  “I’m very sorry about your father.”

The ease in your voice also wavers. Speaking about death was never pleasant.

“Thank you,” he responds too quickly. “I was a bit surprised when I received the invitation,” he says, confidence slowly returning as he pushes past the death of his father. “Wasn’t expecting such a warm welcome.”

Picking up on the not-so-subtle clues that he wished to change the topic, you follow his lead.

“It’s my mother’s sole goal to be friends with everybody in this town. By the end of the night, she will have spoken to everybody in this room about four times, just to be absolutely sure she’s done her role as hostess justice.”

“She’s cornered me twice already,” he laughs, abruptly stopping to look for any sign of offense on your features.

“You’ve got at least two more times coming your way,” you give him an understanding smile. If anybody had felt cornered by your mother, it was you. “My advice, try not to make eye contact with her.”

It happens too fast for you to be certain it’s real, but out of the corner of your eye, you see something golden move quickly in the garden. A golden color that seems very familiar.

It couldn’t be.

Perhaps Mr. Barnes was correct, and your eyes had only been playing tricks on you.

It seemed he hadn’t seen what you thought you had, though, as he speaks through his laughter.   

“That’s hard to do when her eyes seem to be on every corner of the room at once.”

“It’s a talent she’s worked hard to develop,” you reply, stomach doing flips as you picture just what she’d do if she ever discovered what you were talking about with the town’s newest resident.

“Speaking about talent,” he begins, “The pianist? He’s _the_ Patrick.”

“Yes,” you answer with a chuckle. “The one and only.”

“It would be a shame if we let his talent go to waste, don’t you think?” You note his voice has dropped. Typical. “May I have this dance?”

It takes you a few seconds to respond as your eye again catches a glimpse of gold in the garden. This time much closer to the windows.

“Of course,” you finally say with a courteous smile, missing the way his eyes light up.

You sense your mother’s gaze on you both and finding her, you spot the smile on her face. Whether it’s meant for you or the couple she’s speaking to is up for debate. But there’s something in her smile, as if she’s looking beyond tonight, a sense of knowledge on her part.

But it’s hard to dwell on the details of her smile, as Mr. Barnes strikes up another animated conversation. One hand on your waist, the other delicately wrapping around yours.

“It’s hard to tell at night, but I believe I saw there was a few more of those dog bushes in your garden. Are you responsible for those?”

“They’re actually rose bushes,” you say in mock offense, making him chuckle. “And yes, tending to the garden helps pass the time.”

“My father owns, well owned,” he amends, “a large estate a few hours from here. There’s a very rare type of lily that grows there. People always asked him for bulbs, but he never gave any away. They would even offer him money, and he still refused.”

“Well he was proud of them only being in his garden,” you say distractedly trying to spot the hint of gold once again among the sea of darkness of the outdoors.

“I could bring back a few bulbs for your garden the next time I’m in town,” he suggests. “I’m sure they’ll thrive under your care.”

This time, it’s not just a blur of gold that you spot, but your favorite shade of steel blue, as you see Steve’s eyes peeking into the foyer, his usually neat golden hair, a mess.

He has the nerve to send you a wink, gesturing up the stairs with his head, before disappearing into the darkness once again.

“That’s very nice,” you mumble, hoping Mr.Barnes hadn’t picked up on the fact that you had no idea what he had just said.

And just on cue, the last notes to the piece being played fills the foyer.

“Thank you for the dance,” you say in haste, already itching to get up to your room. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I need a bit of a break.”

“Of course,” his voice is soft, a sound that matches the softness of his gaze. “It was my pleasure, miss.”

You step away from him, trying to steady your racing heart as you make your way up the stairs.

You aren’t very successful, however. The thought of Steve being here too much for your heart to take.

Slowly opening the door to your bedroom, you find him halfway through the window of your room, awkwardly draping his legs over the ledge.

“What are you doing here?” you ask quietly, trying not to laugh as he finally makes it into your room after a bit of a struggle.

He makes his way to you, a smile on his lips as he lets his gaze take in your dress.

He’s not in his uniform tonight. Instead, he has a casual pair of trousers with suspenders on, a light blue shirt buttoned only halfway, letting a white shirt peak from underneath. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up until just below the elbow.

He’s a dream.

“Well, you left me wondering just how gorgeous this dress of yours was, sweetheart. I had to come see it for myself.”

“And?” you ask, giving him a twirl.

“You’re a dream come true,” he whispers, his words dripping like honey, and suddenly he seems too far away.

It seems he also senses the distance between you both as he takes a couple of steps, arms encircling your waist, soft lips finding yours. Warmth spreads in your chest, as his scent surrounds you. It’s home, it’s safety, it’s love. Butterflies flutter in your stomach as his hold becomes tighter, his kiss deeper. Everything around you disappears. It’s just you and him. Gone is the soft, muffled sound of the music and chatter from downstairs, it’s replaced with your synched heartbeats. 

He parts first, appeasing you with a peck when he sees your pout.

“Seems I wasn’t the only one to recognize how beautiful you look tonight,” he says, a teasing tone to his voice you can look right through.

Your heart drops. Certainly, he didn’t think you and Mr. Barnes had anything more than a simple shared dance.

“It didn’t—" you begin, stopped by another quick peck.

“I know,” he reassures you, but his gaze is still too gloomy for your liking. “I just hoped to be the one to get a dance with you tonight.”

“Well the music is still playing,” you say, wanting desperately to see that spark in his eyes return.

“I can barely hear it,” he responds, suddenly straightening out, an idea quickly forming. “Do you still have the present I gave you?”

You immediately catch on, choosing to let go of the fact that he thought there was even a small chance you had gotten rid of his present. Finding the small heart-shaped box in your vanity drawer, you walk back to where he stands — the box reflecting the glow of the moonlight.

He opens it, his fingers delicate as if the box could shatter if he moves too quickly.

As the first few notes of the melody begin to play, he sets the box down.

“May I have this dance?” he asks, his boyish smile finally returning to his face as he bows.

“It would be my pleasure,” you smile, responding to his bow with a curtsy.

“I made sure to wear my Sunday best,” he chuckles, bringing you close.

This time, you let your head rest on his shoulder, eyes closed as he sways you to the melody of the music box.

“You’re always so handsome,” you reply, tucking your head even more into the crook of his neck, his warmth bringing you in. “Always a dream.”

“You’re my dream,” he whispers, placing a feather-soft kiss to the top of your head. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re real because how is it possible that the perfect person for me exists and is right here in my arms. Will I one day wake up alone in the barracks, only to realize this was all just a dream?”

“No,” you soothe him, understanding his sentiment all too well. “Because it isn’t a dream. I love you with all my heart, Steve.”

He continues to sway you both, letting your words settle deep within his heart. Deep enough to ensure that nothing could ever erase them.  

“And I love you,” he says.

You have to open and close the music box a few times, hushed giggles breaking the silence. But after some time, you let the melody fade, dancing, instead, to the beat of your hearts.


	3. His

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter took a lot longer than I expected.. so sorry about that! But I really do hope you enjoy it!! Thank you so much for giving this series a chance, it means the world to me! Thanks for reading :D.

It’s there, written out for you and you wish you hadn’t read it, wish you didn’t have to read it. 

 

 _I’ve received my orders,_ the note reads in Steve’s handwriting – an elegant curve to his letters. _We move out in a few days._

 

Somehow, though, despite the ache in your chest and the weight of the dread that is building on your shoulders, your feet manage to carry you back to the gazebo where only a few weeks ago you had reunited with Steve.

 

The gazebo is shaded today, dark and cold shadows litter the floor, only a few rays of sunlight criss-cross it.

 

“It’s terrible timing, I know,” he says, eyes downcast, voice cracking, and something in you stirs to leave it all behind, take his hand, and run as fast as your feet can take you, past your house without a second thought, and live your life with him; with the love of your life. 

 

And why shouldn’t you? 

 

What is keeping you tied to this town, to these norms, to this need to maintain your one source of happiness a secret? The more you think, the more you realize that there’s nothing– not a single thing that is bigger than the love you feel for Steve. Not a single thing that could be worth not fully living out your love with and for him.

 

“Sweetheart?” you hear his whisper barely make its way past your loud thoughts. You hear his soft voice whisper that term of endearment that belongs to him and only him. “If it were up to me, I would stay here with you; please know that.”

 

You nod in response, still raking through your mind to find one good reason not to propose leaving it all behind. 

 

He would agree, you know it. His eyes would light up, a bright smile on his face, as soon as you muttered the words. His long strides would carry you even faster out and away from this place. You’d find someplace quiet, a small home where you could just disappear into the background. Somewhere away from prying eyes, from judgmental thoughts, and you would thrive. Sure you would. You would be happy. No, you’d be more than just happy. You’d be completely and totally elated, satisfied, joyous. You’d be able to use all the words that describe happiness. All of them. 

 

“And while I don’t have a say in what will happen in a few days,” he continues, tilting your chin up with his finger, not aware of the storm that rages in your mind. “I do have a say in the rest of my life.”

 

Suddenly all your thoughts halt. The storm stops, parting clouds give way to a few rays of light illuminating another option. One that might not need you to run away.  It all comes to a sudden stop as you see him pat the coat of his uniform jacket, a timid smile on his lips. His tongue pokes from between his lips as his fingers dig into his pocket, seemingly trying to grab hold of something that keeps escaping his grasp. 

 

His eyes, you swear, are bluer than ever in the soft morning light that filters through the gazebo. Did the light illuminating your thoughts somehow also manage to illuminate the gazebo? You spot little specks of green and darker blue swimming in his eyes, and if time were friendly to you both, if it just stood still for a second, you’d sit there getting lost in their beauty. 

 

But he smiles as he pulls out something from his pocket as if he’s privy to a joke you’re not aware of just yet. He holds it tight, in a clenched fist, raising his eyebrows playfully as you try to catch a glimpse.

 

“When I picture the rest of my life,” he begins, and you feel as if your heart is beating a million times a minute. It almost hurts; a beautiful kind of pain that reminds you you’re lucky enough to be in love with the man standing in front of you. “There’s only you.”

 

His gaze drops for a second, and when it returns to you, it's full of the tenderness that you love so much. That tenderness that anchors you and somehow still manages to leave you weak at the knees. That tenderness that pulled you in from the very first time you saw him. That tenderness that makes him Steve. A tenderness that is as much his as the word ‘sweetheart’.

 

It’s him. 

 

Only him. 

 

And if it hadn't been clear enough already, your heart and mind make sure you know it. Both race, filling now with images of a different future. 

 

“Because you’re all that matters. When I’m away from you, I long for you. When I’m next to you, it’s you I get lost in. My heart, my thoughts, my gaze, my everything, is yours. And, sweetheart, nothing would make me happier than my future being yours too.”

 

Slowly, he opens his fist, and in the center of his palm is a ring. 

 

You were sure your heart could never beat as fast as it was beating a few moments ago, but as you stare at the ring in his hand, it somehow speeds up. It crashes against the walls of your chest, its erratic beat reaching your ears. 

 

In his hand is a [delicate silver ring](https://tiarascrowns.tumblr.com/post/171354131667/a-late-19th-century-pearl-diamond-and-sapphire/amp) that branches into a set of three bands – the two outer bands are rimmed with small sparkling diamonds and flanked with precious sapphires. Nestled in between these bands is a row of tiny pearls, suspending a slightly larger pearl. 

 

The sapphires match his uniform. And you realize that's another thing that's his; blue. 

 

“My grandmother would tell me the story of how my grandfather managed to get this ring for her,” he continues, understanding that you are at a loss for words as the only thing that pushes past your lips is a soft sigh. “It took him years, but he knew he had to get the perfect ring for his perfect match.”

 

A tearful smile graces your features as he takes the ring from his palm, turning it as he holds it between his pointer finger and thumb.

 

And what could you say at that moment? Love fills you from head-to-toe, and you suddenly feel that if you were to look down, the ground would be far below. This is what it must feel like to fly. This must be why birds sing, because who could ever not feel happy when your heart and soul are soaring above the darkness of the world. 

 

“She gave me her ring before she passed,” he speaks through his own set of tears. “She made me promise I would only give it to the love of my life, and since the first time I saw you, I knew I had found you.”

 

“Steve,” you begin, succumbing to the need to be in his arms. He hasn’t even officially asked, but you already imagine how happy the rest of your life with Steve will be. The soft morning kisses, the late night talks, everything flashes before your eyes, filling your heart with happiness. 

 

You pull him close, head nestled in his neck, breathing in his scent. 

 

“This isn’t how I would’ve liked this to happen, sweetheart,” he says, arms resting around your waist.  “I wish I would’ve been able to speak to your father, gain his favor, court you properly.”

 

There’s something in his voice you wish you could kiss away, and so you try.

 

Bringing your lips to his, you try to draw out the sadness that coats his voice, replace it if only with a tiny sliver of the happiness he has given you. His lips, soft as ever, gently move with yours, his hold tightening. 

 

“None of that matters,” you whisper, your forehead resting on his. “What they say, what they may think, none of it matters.”

 

It doesn't, you realize yourself. Whoever wants to judge, can. It could never take away from the love filling your heart. 

 

Taking half a step back, you take his hand and place it over your heart. 

 

“Feel that?” you say, melting at how his lips slowly turn up into a smile as he gets a glimpse at how your body reacts to him. “Feel how fast it beats? And it’s all because of you.”

 

“They won’t be happy about it,” he whispers, but his eyes have something new in them, a sense of determination. “I have nothing to offer.”

 

“Steven Grant Rogers,” you scold him with a laugh. “What more could I ask for if I have you?”

 

“A large beautiful home?”

 

“I have that in your eyes.”

 

He scrunches his nose at the thought, blushing.

 

“More pretty dresses?”

 

“Will you stop loving me without them?”

 

“Absolutely not,” he says, quickly pressing a kiss to your lips. 

 

“Radiant jewelry?”

 

“Well, if you give me that ring you’re holding, I think I’ll have all the jewelry I need.”

 

“Be mine forever?” he whispers the question, protecting this moment from everything. “We’ll face the world when I come back, I promise.”

 

He kneels then, smiling up at you as he offers you his grandmother’s ring. 

 

“A thousand times yes,” you reply, tears streaming down your face as he places the ring on your finger, a perfect fit. 

 

A perfect  fit, just like his lips are a perfect fit on yours as he brings you into a searing kiss. 

 

Everything about this moment is more than you could have ever hoped for. The air is still, the sunlight soft, and looking back at you is the love of your life – the man you’ll be sharing the rest of your life with. 

 

There’s a permanent smile on your face from that moment on. At night, when your house is quiet, and with only the moon and stars as witnesses, you pull the ring from its home in the music box Steve gave you a few weeks ago. You twirl it knowing soon he’d be back, soon you would be able to wear it everywhere. 

 

Before his orders take him away, he visits one last time, leaving you with the taste of his lips on yours. He leaves with a piece of your heart but leaves you with a piece of his. 

 

Because here is another thing that should be added to the list of things that are his; your heart. 

 

-‘Sweetheart’

-Tenderness

-Blue

-Your heart

 

They’re all his. Forever. 

 

“I’ll write when I can,” he promises. “I’ll find a way, sweetheart.”

 

And with those words, you part, knowing war was not only brewing where he was heading, but it would soon form right here in your own home. 


	4. And So It Begins...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi HI!!!! Here is another chapter for you guys! its been a while in the making lol but it’s done and its here. This chapter is somewhat long ;) and it spans some time. Bucky is back and we also get some steve (sort of) ALSO A NEW COOL DUDE MAKES AN APPEARENCE..you’ll see lol !!! yay!!! I hope you guys enjoy it and as always thank you so very much for reading.

_Sweetheart,_

_It’s only been a few days, but my heart already longs for you._

_I’ve managed to find a quiet spot underneath a grove of trees. Away from the rest of my battalion who are now distracted with a new game they’ve begun playing when we have some time to ourselves. I won’t bore you with every detail, but they’re having us do exactly what we did back home. When we’re back in the barracks, we can’t help but wonder why they moved us so far away. We keep our discontent amongst ourselves, though. Despite our complaints, none of us are willing to risk the discipline we might be put under if our superiors hear our whispers._

_I wonder if you remember Sam Wilson, a fellow who thinks himself the most handsome man alive. He was with me the day I met you, and I wouldn’t doubt he tried flirting with you. In any case, they joined our battalions, so the days don’t feel as long now that his never-ending conversation keeps me entertained. He has an opinion on everything, and if our superiors ever find out what we whisper behind closed doors, it will probably be because of Sam. That man speaks his mind and holds nothing back._

_Still, his words often fail to cut through my thoughts of you, of the day I asked you to be my wife. I made a promise, and I’m determined to keep it. Sam still doesn’t believe that you actually said yes. And frankly, neither do I. He says it’s because you’ve forgotten what he looks like. If you could clarify this matter, it would give me some leverage over him, maybe knock him a couple of pegs down. My day would be made._

_I miss you, sweetheart, but every day brings me closer to you, and that’s the only thing that keeps me going._

_I hope all is well with you. I hope that same smile I saw last is still on your sweet lips._

_I’ll be home soon. I promise._

_Yours,_

_Steve Rogers_

_\--_

The sun shone a little brighter; the birds sang happier tunes after you read those words. Just a few days ago, this same paper had been in Steve’s hands, and now here it was- a little piece of Steve, and it meant the world to you.

You had come up with the perfect plan to avoid any trouble when Steve wrote to you. After a few days of investigation, Abigail had discovered that the Hill family had once again left town- this time for months as they prepared to expand their businesses. With this information in mind, Steve had been signing all his envelopes as Maria Hill.

What could ever be suspicious of two friends keeping in touch while one travels?

Gently folding the letter after reading it for the fourth time- or maybe it was a fifth time, you weren’t sure anymore- you tuck it behind the music box you treasured. Even if your mother ran across it, she was already aware you were exchanging letters except, of course, she believed it was with Maria. Still, you hoped, if by some chance she saw the letter she would leave it alone after noting Maria’s name on the envelope.

It was clear Steve still had some time on his hands. The writing in the letter wasn’t rushed; it still had that elegant curve that made it so distinct. He had made the folds on the letter crisp, and straight, taking his time to make it as neat as possible.

Even in the tiny details, he still had your heart.

You would have to respond to him soon, made sure he was aware that you did, in fact, remember Sam. He did have something to brag about, as the man you remembered was strong and tall with sweet eyes. But still, no one came close to your Steve. So you’d help him knock Sam a few pegs down, just to make sure he had something to laugh about while he was away— a clear victory under his belt.

With a sigh, you leave your room, already a dozen ideas in mind in case your mother chose to ask what Maria had written about.

“Your father is returning today,” your mother speaks as soon as she hears your steps coming down the stairs, her back is to you as she peers into the garden. “Mr. Barnes will be coming over to speak to him about business, so I expect you on your best behavior.”

“When am I not?” you joke, regretting it instantly when she abruptly turns to you, but her expression catches you off guard.

She has a smile.

“Isn’t he handsome?”

“Father always is,” you smile back, not willing to play her game.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that as a matter of fact,” she moves along with the conversation, side-stepping your comment. “You two looked very close that night at the party. I heard your laughs all the way from across the room.”

“We weren’t close,” you retort, breathing deeply as you take a seat on one of the couches. _We were both just sharing our common distaste of you._ “He simply asked for a dance and thanks to your ever-present teachings, I agreed, to be polite.”

This was strange. Having a mother that for some unknown reason, is suddenly interested in talking to you.

“Well, that dance was the envy of every other girl that night. Do you know how many other girls he danced with? None, just you.”

That wasn’t the dance you often thought back to, though. The one in the dark and in silence, with your favorite soldier, that’s the one that mattered.

“He was just being polite too,” you reply, hoping she wouldn’t make his visit more than it was. “I’m sure his father taught him to be polite and chivalrous, especially to a party hostess’ daughter.”

“Yes, I’m sure it was that too,” she says, and her tone is playful. Strange.

“Ma’am,” Abigail’s voice cuts through the strange atmosphere your mother created. “Mr. Barnes is here.”

“He’s early,” she almost chirps, a pep to her step as she walks towards the foyer. “Wonder why that is.”

You hear your mother’s muffled greeting from the living room followed by a pair of steps, and you stand up, straightening the skirt of your dress because they’re always there, those rules and norms that tell you how you must present yourself. 

“Miss,” Mr. Barnes halts his conversation with your mother as he catches your gaze. He’s dressed sharply, but what catches your eye is the two lilies he holds in his hands. They’re beautiful, a soft dusting of pink covering their white petals. It’s almost as if he painted them. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

Your mother stands tall beside him, apologizing again that your father isn’t home yet.

“It’s nice to see you too, Mr. Barnes,” you say, giving him a polite nod of your head.

“This is for you,” he extends one of the lilies to your mother who practically beams. You’ve never seen her this happy; it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Why thank you so much, Mr. Barnes,” she says coyly, taking the lily and twirling it between her fingers. 

“And this one is for you,” he says, gaze soft as he extends the second lily towards you. His hand trembles a bit. “These are the lilies I mentioned at your party.”

He approaches you slowly, a smile on his lips.

“Thank you,” you reply, reaching out to take the lily. “Now I know why your father never wanted to share them. They’re beautiful.”

“About that,” he winks, and you don’t think a practical stranger has ever winked to you before. Your mom, though, seems delighted. Maybe she missed it. “I may have another surprise.”

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a pink handkerchief, all four corners loosely tied with some string. He draws the string to undo the knot, letting the corners of the handkerchief fall.

“They’re the bulbs I promised,” he says, gesturing to the three bulbs he holds and you take a half a step back as you realize he’s a little too close for comfort.

Did he promise? You don’t remember any promise, but to be fair, you had been distracted as the golden hair of your sweetheart had been bobbing around the garden while Mr. Barnes had talked to you.

“They will be a lovely addition to our garden,” you mother chimes in, clapping up a storm, noting you’re standing there not saying a thing.

“Yes,” you finally say, taking a deep breath as you mentally shoot daggers towards your mom. “Thank you, Mr. Barnes. I’ll be sure to take care of them.”

You did remember him mentioning no one else had ever been fortunate enough to get these sought-after bulbs. But here he was, offering them to you despite the wishes of his late father to keep them only on their estate. That, paired with the face-splitting smile your mother had, made your insides twist. Never had your mother been this happy around you. She mostly scolded and corrected you, and yet she now stood only a few feet away, smiling as if you had just achieved everything she had ever hoped for.

“I know they’ll be very happy here,” he responds, as he hands you the bulbs with so much care you’d think they’d break if he moved any faster.

_\--_

_Sweetheart,_

_Sam did not appreciate your response, but I would like to thank you from the bottom of my heart. Getting to read it to him has been the highlight of my time here. Of course, second to receiving your letter._

_We don’t have much time to complain or play now, though. They’re moving us east, so I’m afraid even my letters will take longer to get to you. But worry not, because no matter the distance, my love for you is just the same. Maybe even more now that I dream about your eyes every night. I miss you with all I’ve got._

_The more eastward we get, the more the air smells like gunpowder, but I smile when I remember that your scent is something, I made sure you knew I missed. And, my God, do I miss it._

_I must go now as the sun is almost entirely up and we’ll continue moving soon._

_I love you,_

_Steve Rogers_

_\--_

He had been correct. His letter had taken almost double the time the first one had taken to reach you. But as he had mentioned, despite the distance, your love was still intact.

The fact that his battalion was on the move worried you greatly, but his spirits still seemed to be up. Thank goodness for Sam and whatever nonsense he filled Steve’s ear with. At least they weren’t alone. They had each other. And maybe Sam was lucky enough to pull one of those adorable laughs from Steve. The ones that made his eyes water.

So with a bit of worry in your heart, but with still more happiness at having heard from him, you had tucked this letter behind the music box, on top of your first letter.

It had been almost one month since your father had returned, and even though you protested every minute of the day, he still worked just as much as when he was in better health.

He needed to rest, you knew that, but he still moved forward, seeing Mr. Barnes almost every day as they arranged details for a deal they were working on.

“Miss,” you hear Mr. Barnes’ voice come into the living room where you sit. He walks alongside your father, having built a relationship of trust and respect. Mr. Barnes always taking time to ask your father about business, or about his time in the military. He had found in your father a mentor, and your father was more than happy to oblige to all his queries, seeing in him someone reminiscent of his youth. “I hope you’re not too upset that I’ve kept your father away.”

“It’s not you I’m upset with,” you stand, sending a warning look to your father who seems unbothered. Typical.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” he smiles, a genuine look of relief on his features as holds up one of his hands to his chest. “I was hoping to see how the lilies are doing, if you don’t mind, that is.”

There’s always this softness to his voice. As if he’s unsure of how to speak to you. Always this sense of nervousness that almost makes you hope he isn’t afraid of you. Because that is not something, you ever wanted. To be feared. Sure, you’d been keeping your distance, but only because he was nothing more than your father’s newest business partner, not because you rejected the idea of a friendship.

Looking to your father, you see his nod, and you smile, hoping to right whatever wrong you had committed with Mr. Barnes.

“Of course, I don’t mind,” you reply, and there’s that look of relief again. “Come with me.”

He follows, just a few steps behind, commenting here and there about all your flowers currently in bloom.

“I knew I was giving them a good home when I brought you the lilies,” you hear him say, a bit more self-assured. 

“Well, I do my best, Mr. Barnes,” you say, stopping when you spot the growing lilies. They’re standing a few inches from the ground, not close to blooming, but he looks at them as if they’re the most beautiful thing he’s seen. “They’re looking well enough, a few more weeks and they’ll bloom.”

“You don’t have to call me Mr. Barnes, you know,” he says, voice shaky with those nerves again as his gaze comes up to meet yours. “Your mother and father call me James, and we’re not that far apart in age.”

“I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

“Have we ever been appropriate?” he asks, catching what he said quickly, and you almost laugh at how red his face has gone. You really didn’t know what to think of him. He looked like a lost puppy at times, stumbling his way through a conversation or following your father around wide-eyed and trying to take everything he said in. Other times, he seemed so sure of himself, the picture of a determined man. And you still weren’t sure what triggered the switch that got him from one disposition to the other. “I mean- I- I just mean our first conversation wasn’t entirely parent approved.”

“It wasn’t,” you admit still thankful your mother had only heard your laughs that night. “Still, I called you Mr.Barnes that night, and I don’t think that will change anytime soon. I hope you understand.”

“You could call me Bucky,” he beams, and his cheeks look like the petals of the lilies he brought you; lightly coated with the softest of pinks. He gazes at the lilies again, crouching as his fingers reach out to touch the small leaves that have sprung around the growing stems. 

“Why would I call you that? That’s not even a word,” you can’t help but laugh.

“It is definitely a word,” he joins you and laughs, little wrinkles forming in the corner of his eyes. Yes, you wouldn’t mind a friendship with him. “And it's a nickname. Only my friends call me that.”

“What does it mean?”

“I’m afraid my friends weren’t very creative. They just shortened my middle name, Buchanan.”

“And here I was picturing you with big buck teeth,” you joke.

“Well,” he begins, standing up, dusting off a bit of dirt on his fingers by brushing his hand against his suit. “If I cave and say that’s why they call me Bucky, would you stop calling me Mr.Barnes?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Barnes,” you laugh at his overdramatic groan.

_—_

_Sweetheart,_

_It’s begun, and I’m afraid I don’t have many nice things to share with you. Sam gave us a scare a few days ago. He apparently doesn’t only think himself handsome, but also indestructible. Luckily it was only a graze wound, and he’s still alive and filling the air with his nonsense. I couldn’t be happier._

_I can’t lie to you; it’s grim. We never see their attacks coming. But for now, I try my best to tune it all out with my memories of you. Instead of gunshots, I think of the soft tune of your music box. Instead of the mud we walk through each day, I think about that climb I made to your room. Instead of the cold, I think about how warm you always are. You’re what keeps me going. That’s what you have always been. Do not worry about me; I’m happy in our memories._

_Always yours,_

_Steve Rogers._

_—_

Steve had written the letter almost three weeks ago. For all you knew, at this point, his battalion had been ambushed. Steve could be gone. And you knew that if it ever happened, chances were you would never be told. After all, the only one who seemed to know about your plans outside the both of you was Sam. Still, your heart refused to dwell too much on that, hoping instead to learn more about the situation. Knowing was better than letting your mind run wild speculating. If left alone, it only seemed to be able to paint dark images that scared you beyond belief.

Word had reached town about the start of the war around the same time Steve had written the letter. Your father and every other respected veteran had met with the mayor, in preparation of any form of attack on the town.

It was silly, really, for Steve to ask you not to worry. How could you not when the love of your life was in the line of fire every day?

You knew things were dangerous, especially towards the east where Steve was. And you tried to ask your father about it, but he was determined to keep most details from you, requesting that you not worry. There was something about the men in your life and the way they never wanted you to worry that frustrated you.

Your mother, with her head in the clouds, assumed everything would be over within a few weeks. If she had her way, she’d throw another party to lighten the mood in the town, and to the disbelief of no one, she had already proposed it.

So you came to the conclusion that the only one that might be open enough with you about the war would be Mr. Barnes.

“I'm surprised your father hasn't talked to you about it,” he says, once again playing with the leaves on the lilies. They were almost ready to bloom. He looked so proud of them, you’d think he’d grown them himself. Whenever he had the chance, he asked to see them, asking so many questions your head spun.

“Well, he’s said a few things, but he’s held back his thoughts. Asks me not to worry.”

Frustrated wasn't enough of a word to describe how you felt. Every day Steve was in danger, and there was nothing you could do about it. There was nobody you could be direct with and nobody that was direct with you.

“He’s right in some way; there’s nothing you should worry about. I'm sure the war won't be on your steps anytime soon,” his voice is firm, but there’s something in his eyes. He’s almost analyzing you, wondering how much you’ll push.

“It’s not that I'm worried about,” you heave a sigh, walking away from Mr. Barnes. “It’s those who are fighting. The men who are risking their lives.”

“Someone, in particular, you’re worried about?”

He approaches you timidly, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers.

“I could ask around if there is, make sure you get the information you need.”

Steve had told Sam. Could you trust Mr. Barnes to guard your secret? So far, he’d been nothing but polite, and a man like him had surely experienced love and felt that almost ferocious desire to keep it safe.

But then again, he was close to your parents and a man from a wealthy family who had undoubtedly been taught how people like you should behave. Someone who had grown up in this same world of strict norms regulating every single move of your life would most likely think like your parents and judge what you held so dearly.

He looks on to you, eyebrows raised in almost concern. And he just waits for you to get your thoughts together, his gaze soft, prompting you to be honest and part of you wants to be.

Part of you just wants to tell someone about Steve and the love you have for him. Tell someone about the letters, and the music box, and the ring.

But that someone is not Mr.Barnes.

“No, no one in particular,” you reply after an eternity, “But I’m sure all of those men would rather be home with their families, somewhere warm, somewhere safe.”

You will your tears to stay put, beg them not to roll down your cheeks. Beg your mind not to picture Steve longing to be back home because if you let those images flash through your mind, you would, without question, crash to the ground in sobs.  

“I see,” he says, the concern he showed moments ago melting away. “War is never pretty, never something we hope for.” He leads the way, following the stone path your father had built into the garden so many summers ago. “Your father means well, he does, but it’s best to stay informed. The war will be long, I’m afraid, and we will lose many great men. There’s no way I can paint you a pretty picture of war. I’d be lying to you, and I’d like to think we are not the type who lie.”

“I’d like to think that too,” you agree despite not being entirely honest with him.

“It won’t be over in a few weeks like your mother chooses to believe. Patrick won't be forced to return and play at another party of hers, and I'm sure he’s very grateful. But it will be over one day, and then all those men will be able to come home. Some alive, some not, but they’ll all be back.”

There’s nothing reassuring about his words, but there is in his honesty.

That night as you tuck away this latest letter behind the music box you find the previous two beside the music box instead. All those late night re-readings of the letters must’ve caused you to forget to put them back where they belong, so with nimble fingers you return them to their rightful place quickly peeking at the ring hoping Steve could feel you thinking of him— hoping Steve would be one of the lucky ones who would come home alive.


End file.
